Chips and Tepid Tea
by canis-ursus
Summary: Two Christmas times in Lupin's life: food (or lack thereof), presents (overabundance thereof), friends and loneliness (plenty of each).


**_Chips and Tepid Tea_**

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It was meant as a surprise.  He would let his parents believe that he was staying at school during the Christmas holiday, then suddenly turn up at the front door, chortling gleefully at the ecstatic surprise on their faces.  Oh, yes, he had it all well-planned.  

He had no doubt that his parents missed him desperately.  Their letters came almost every day, telling him to eat well, wear warm clothing and sleep early.  He would have been annoyed with the constant reminder, had he not missed his parents just as badly.  Of course he hid it from them in his letters, writing only of his lessons and his friends; and indeed the pranks his friends pulled at teachers and fellow students; the lengthy wanderings to Hogsmead and, of course his increasing study load, kept his mind off his parents most of the time.  But at a certain time each month, after he had spent interminable hours gripped in dark, fiery struggle with pain and fear, he yearned desperately for his parents' familiar and comforting touch.  Much as he enjoyed Hogwarts, the thoughts of home and his parents always made him wistfully sigh in longing.

Summer vacations had always meant trips to the seashore; fishing jaunts in lonely brooks under the shade of swaying willows; camping out in the wilderness and telling stories by the merry crackle of a campfire; a weekend or two in a sturdy log cabin perched alone in the windy hills of the undulating moors, where he joined his father hunting for pheasants and rabbits, and where at night after the transformation he could roam free and far, his parents hovering above him on their old broomsticks, and none of them worried about muggles spotting them.  

And he could have all of his favorite food.  

He loved Hogwarts food; who wouldn't?  But something about his mother's cooking made even the best fare the house-elves could prepare taste like so much candle wax.  Part of the joy of coming home was being able to eat his mother's chicken-pie, the crust of which was the flakiest he had ever eaten; his mother's baked-beans, the smell of which was enough to make his stomach growl even after tea with his mother's heavenly apple-turnovers and crumbly slabs of rich chocolate cake; his mother's roast lamb chops that sizzled enticingly on his plate the minute they were transferred from the grill, causing one or two accidents where he was forced to spend hours with the inside of his mouth slathered with the sweet, greenish lotion for skin burn.  And for breakfast he could have creamy, fluffy omelet with bacon and mushrooms, or velvety waffles and pancakes with his choice of preserves and jams and jellies, or simply lots and lots of sausages and eggs and crispy toasts and marmalade and a big smile on his mother's face as she watched him eat.  Then at night they huddled in front of the fire, playing Exploding Snap and wizard chess, sipping mugs of cocoa or hot cider and munching on nuts or cookies, telling tales and laughing, until—barely able to keep his eyes open and feeling his trousers buttons straining against his full belly—he kissed his mother and father good night and went to sleep in his soft, cozy bed; the stars twinkling brightly in the cloudless summer night sky outside his window.  

Then in the last week of vacation there was the trip to buy his school supplies in Diagon Alley followed by all the ice cream and sweets he could eat.  By the end of vacation his cheeks always looked a bit rosier, his ribs and hipbones less prominent, and his outfit more like actual clothes than sail cloth draped around his skinny form.  He always looked forward to summer, to coming home, to his mother's cooking, to his parents' loving, longing embrace.  And deep inside he knew that for them the ten-month wait until they could meet in summer again was also an almost unendurable torment.

Which was why he found it ridiculous that they insisted on his staying at school during Christmas holiday.  They said the train trip was too exhausting for him, especially since Christmas holiday always started either shortly before or after a Transformation.  He could not deny that.  After the long train ride back to London, followed by another long and much bumpier ride on the Knight Bus, he always felt too tired to do anything but sleep away his first day home.  He knew his parents had a point.  Christmas holidays were shorter than summer vacations.  He would have little time to recover his strength and enjoy his time home before he had to make the trip back to Hogwarts and brace himself for the next full moon.  

And of course Christmas at school was anything but dreary.  True, James and Peter never failed to go home for the holiday, but Sirius stayed at school for the last two Christmas, and between the two of them they wreaked havoc in the sparsely populated Gryffindor common room.  They had snow-fight and pillow fight; roasted all kinds of things, from food to smelly socks; raided the kitchen, or as much raiding as could be done with the kitchen teeming with ever solicitous house-elves bent on supplying them with endless slices of cakes and bottomless cups of tea, and of course there was the Christmas dinner, and presents from his parents.  His first Christmas in Hogwarts the presents were a pair of nifty binoculars for watching Quidditch _and _a box of chocolate_ and_ a new pair of shoes _and _four pairs of socks _and _a hunk of plum cake.  In his second year: a brass flute that could play all his favorite songs _and_ a box of multicolor ink that could auto-correct any spelling and grammatical mistakes _and_ a box of toffee _and _a brand-new jacket.  He wondered what he would get this year.  But one thing was for sure: he would unwrap the presents in the warm sitting room of his home, with his mother and father beside him.  He was going home for Christmas.

He told his parents nothing of his plan, and it was difficult in itself, he was so excited.  James's father helped him with his few belongings in King's Cross station—he was indeed exhausted after the long ride, but that did not dampen his spirit—and put him in the Knight Bus, insisting on paying for the fare, supplying him with sandwiches and sternly reminding him to get some rest on the way.  He smiled and thanked the black-haired wizard and jumped onto the bus, almost dizzy from happiness.  Then he lay on his bed and thought about home.  Even the most violent lurches and the loudest bangs that came with riding the Knight Bus failed to disturb him when he started to think of what his mother would cook for Christmas dinner.  A turkey, or a plump goose, cooked to golden, luscious perfection; white meat that peel away with a whiff of delicious aroma, with a tall mountain of mashed potatoes, and cranberry sauce, and lots of crunchy greens and ...  He swallowed hungrily, then remembered the sandwiches in his bag.  As he began to eat them, his thoughts kept straying to lemon cake coated in snow-white icing; honey-drenched fruit cakes; caramel pudding swimming in thick, creamy sauce, and flaky triangles of pumpkin pies gleaming with melted butter…   Even after he finished his sandwiches he still felt hollow and cold inside.  He was glad when the bus stopped in front of the small house that he called home.

As he stood in the swirling snowflakes, taking in the general dilapidation of the tiny, non-descript brick house before him, he remembered another time, another house.  He was still very young when he got bitten and his world changed, but he could still remember living in a bigger, better house then, with a garden all around where his mother pottered for hours tending to her flower beds and tubs.  His father had a respectable job designing racing broomsticks, and they led quite a prosperous, happy life.  Until the Bite.  

His parents did everything they could to save him from the bleak future that awaited all werewolves.  His father quit his job so he could spend more time roaming the land, looking for a cure for his only son.  His mother dropped out of her tea-party-and-witch-mahjong circle of friends to nurse him through the violent monthly Change and its horrible aftermath.  The hospital bills alone were ruinous, the trips to the many potions masters and experts—or so they called themselves—in healing charms taxed the family coffers even more.  A year after the Bite, they sold the beautiful white house with its surrounding garden and moved to a smaller cottage.  Over the years they kept moving to progressively smaller, more ramshackle houses, in increasingly more and more sordid neighborhoods the sole virtue of which was that they spared his parents further guilt for virtually isolating him from boys his age.  Still, he cherished even the memories of these privations, because his parents had somehow shielded him from the shame and pain of it all, making him view the whole experience as a series of adventure.

Hogwarts had been a relief from the tedium of hardship: a gift, a blessing that he would forever be thankful for.  He could finally explore and learn beyond the narrow confines of his family's self-imposed seclusion.  He could read more than just his father's collection of books and scrolls, which despite of the huge number and diversity, was dwarfed beside the mammoth library in Hogwarts.  And he had friends, true friends, for the first time in his life since the Bite.  He enjoyed school immensely.  But still there were moments when he hankered for the privacy and intimacy of his own little family.  And now that he stood by the gate of his little shabby house, trembling with the thought that he would very soon see his mother and father again, he was filled with so much joy he thought he could burst from it.  

He walked to the front door, crunching frost and gravel under his shoes, and walked up to the doorstep and knocked on the peeling, weather-worn wooden door.

Snow floated in layered flurries around the dreary house as an icy wind sighed and twined itself around the lifeless shrubbery in the unkempt garden.  He shivered despite his coat, jacket and sweater; knocked again and waited.  No sound came from inside the house.  He peered through the dusty, veiled windows but could see only darkness.  He wondered if his parents were at home, or whether they had decided to spend Christmas Eve in a relative's house.  He began to regret not telling his parents of his plan to come home.  He tried knocking again, louder this time, calling out hopefully, "Dad!  Mum!  It's me!"

Just when he was wondering whether he should go to James's or Sirius's house, there was a faint sound of the door being unlatched and then unlocked.  It swung open to reveal his father, looking pale and haggard, wrapped in a rather threadbare blanket.  The old wizard blinked and frowned at his son.

"Remus!" he said, his voice quivering worriedly.  "What happened?  Are you all right?"

Remus beamed at his father and rushed to hug him.  "I'm home for Christmas, Dad!" he said.  

"Who is that, Orion?"  His mother's voice rang from the sitting room.  

"It's Remus, dear!" his father called out, his voice strangely tense, his hands still wrapped around his son's shoulders.  "He's home for Christmas."

"Remus!" squeaked his mother.  

Remus broke free from his father's arms and ran to the sitting room.

He found his mother sitting on the sofa, bundled in a thick, though somewhat frayed quilt, a look of raw fear and bewildered disbelief on her face.  He ran to her laughing and threw his arms close around her. 

"Surprise!" he said happily, kissing his mother on the cheek.  

"Oh, Remus," she said with a shaky voice, pushing him away so she could get a good look of him.  "Are you all right, son?  Why did the school send you home?  I thought you can stay there for Christmas …"

"I can," he said with a laugh.  "But I don't want to.  What's this, Mom?  You don't miss me?  You don't want me here?"  He pouted and pretended to look hurt.

At this her worried face melted into a laugh and she pulled him into an embrace.  "Of course not, you silly!  Of course we're happy that you're here!"  She kissed the top of his head and inhaled deeply, closing her eyes.

Remus gave his mother another hug then sat back, looking at his father who had brought his bag inside and was standing and smiling behind the sofa.  

"It's a good thing we haven't sent your presents to Hogwarts," he said, reaching out to ruffle Remus's light brown hair.  "Why didn't you write?"  

"I wanted to surprise you," answered Remus, grinning.  "I think that will make the best Christmas present, don't you think?  My coming here and celebrating Christmas at home for a change."  He chuckled impishly and ducked as his mother mussed his already tousled hair.  

"So," he said, his eyes glittering, "When can we eat?  I'm hungry!  I only had sandwiches on the Knight Bus."

At the mention of eating his father had turned pale and his mother looked away.  

"Mom?" he asked quietly.  His mother still would not look at him.  He cast querying eyes at his father and was shocked to see pain in the worn, pinched face.

He looked around the small sitting room.  Some of the candle slots in the wall were empty.  The mantelpiece was bare; he remembered there was an old crystal vase there, an heirloom steeped in magical power that would keep any flower put in it fresh for months, even years.  On the coffee table in front of the sofa a plate sat half-empty amid a scattering of photographs, two unmatching mugs and a dented teapot.

He sniffed and smelled nothing but the damp, musty smell of a badly-insulated, badly-ventilated house.  There certainly was no trace of the scent of roasting bird or pies being baked.  He looked at his mother again.

"You don't cook," he said.  He did not mean to sound accusatory, but his mother seemed to crumple at his words and started to weep silently, still looking away, one hand over her eyes, not meeting her son's horrified eyes.  He watched her in silence, a dark apprehension looming over him, even more so when his father avoided his questioning gaze.  

He returned his eyes to the table and saw what remained of a single serving of fish-and-chips.  The fish had gone, leaving a heap of cold, lumpy looking French fries.  Cold tea filled the mugs.  The sugar bowl was absent, as was the cream pot.  

"Why?" he said hoarsely as he turned to look at his father, who still fixed his eyes on a piece of mouldy ceiling.  "Why you never told me?"

He stared at the photographs on the table.  There was baby Remus, all chubby cheeks and toothless grin, waving vigorously at the camera.  Another was a picture of him as a toddler walking unsteadily while his mother held his little hands and laughed.  A picture of him sitting astride his father's shoulders, both Lupins smiling identical happy grins.  A picture of the three of them clad in bathing suits in the beach.  Another picture of little Remus and his father whizzing hither and thither on a broomstick.  Some pictures of family parties: spilled drink, cream-spattered little face and clusters of luminous, blinking balloons and yards of singing ribbons hanging from the ceiling.  A picture of a serious yet proud looking Remus in Hogwarts robes.  Some pictures of Remus in Hogwarts: stirring a cauldron, trying to look studious while stifling a giggle behind a stack of books in the library, sitting under a tree by the lake, flying on a borrowed broom over the Quidditch pitch.  Pictures of Remus with his Gryffindor second year friends, jostling and nudging each other and laughing gaily.  

Remus tore his eyes from the moving pictures and felt his head throb.

"You starve yourselves for me," he said in quiet bitterness.  The words filled him with a painful sick feeling.  He remembered eating three helpings of the Christmas dinner last year, before stuffing his pockets full of sweets and walking back to the Gryffindor tower still nibbling on a wedge of cinnamon-dusted pumpkin pie.  He remembered the food fight he had with Sirius which left the Gryffindor common room sticky with custard and jelly and squashed cherry preserves.  Suddenly he felt nauseated as self-loathing bubbled in his stomach; he shivered, blinking tears away from his prickling eyes and swallowing his sobs, turning away to look at the flames swaying a languorous dance in the fireplace.

"We don't starve, Remus," said his father in a low tone, walking around the sofa and settling behind his son, gathering the small rigid body into his arms.  "Really we don't.  We just don't have a feast, that's all."

Remus rested his pounding head on his father's arm, staring at his mother: at the long, graceful neck; the tiny, fleshy earlobes; the thin, wiry hands, all bare of jewellery.  He looked at the gnarled fingers lying on his mother's lap and was struck by the awareness of what damage and cruelty merciless hard work had done to his mother's hands.  

He realized with a sudden pang how much he did not know about his parents.  He knew his father did two or three jobs at the same time at any given time.  Now he worked in a broomstick service center during the day and at night he monitored the printing quills in the _Daily Prophet_.   He knew his mother worked as a nurse in a witch maternity hospital.  None of those jobs paid well, he knew that, but somehow his parents never gave him any cause to worry about their family's financial state and until then he never quite grasped the extent of their sacrifice to give him that rock-solid feel of security and peace of mind.  He suddenly understood how they could go to the beach, rent a cabin and eat like kings during his summer vacations.  His parents had skimped and saved, done without many things, denying themselves even the very basic pleasure of plentiful food—and from the chill in the room, also warmth—for the good part of a year, all fortheir only son's sake.

He screwed his eyes shut, and bit his lip, shuddering as another image ran through his mind.  

Platform 9 ¾, King's Cross Station, the beginning of school term.  He could not help comparing his father—looking scruffy in oil-spattered overalls, he had been working before apparating to the station—with James's.  Mr. Potter looked so distinguished and prosperous in his well-tailored suit and shiny shoes.  His mother had looked like a beggar in her ill-fitting, cheap looking dress, standing there beside Sirius's elegant mother.  He pushed his trolley faster, putting as much distance between him and his parents, guiltily not wanting to be seen with them.  He wriggled uneasily in their arms as they inevitably kissed him goodbye, and hid in his compartment when the train started moving.

He knew he was too big to be bawling like a baby.  But when his thought went back to that morning in the London train station, he sagged weakly in his father's arms, buried his face in his shaking hands and began to weep.  "I'm sorry," he whispered.  "I'm so sorry."

He felt his father gather him closer, felt one of his mother's hand encircle him while the other pry his hand loose from his face.  He felt her coarse lips kiss the wet tracks on his face, her mouth issuing gentle shushing sounds. 

He opened his eyes and looked into his mother's grey eyes.  The love that shone in those eyes hurt and soothed him, froze and warmed him, stripped him naked and sheltered him.  He suddenly realized with an aching bliss how wealthy, how fabulously wealthy he was.  

With a choked laughter he flung his arms around his mother and heard her answering chuckle.  He could feel his father's mouth curved into a smile where his stubbly face nuzzled into his neck.  

And he thought it was the loveliest Christmas he had ever had.

**_Epilogue_**

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"This is from the Gryffindor third year," said Poppy Pomfrey, handing Remus Lupin a package wrapped in brown paper.  "I think it's another sweater."

"What do you wager, Poppy?" smiled Lupin, tearing apart the wrapping paper.  "Ah, you're right.  Green.  How nice."

Poppy stared at the young man.  He was sitting up on his bed, propped up on a heap of pillows, wrapping paper and Christmas gifts strewn about him.  His face still looked pale and tired, dark smudges shadowing his blood-shot eyes.  There was just the tiniest hint of tremor in his hands, and the few bite- and scratch marks on his body stood out livid against the pallor of his skin.  But he was smiling.  

How the man could still smile after the ordeal he had been through was beyond Poppy's comprehension.  The monthly transformation was hard on Lupin despite the potion he faithfully drank to keep it manageable.  This morning Poppy had had to break into the DADA teacher's office, dosed the barely conscious Remus with Pepper-Up and a mild sleeping draught, then flew him at the end of her wand to his sleeping chamber.  He slept the morning and afternoon away, waking up still weak and woozy, but otherwise well enough to be cheered by the sight of a sizable mound of Christmas presents at the foot of his bed.  

"From Slytherin fourth year," muttered Remus with a glint of amusement in his eyes.  "Look.  A brown cardigan.  Good heavens, I have plenty of thank-you notes to write, don't I?  Why most of them gave me clothes, I wonder."

Poppy snorted.  "Remus, the state of your wardrobe is appalling.  Even the least fashion-conscious of our students and staff are scandalized by your clothes.  I know you can battle dark creatures wearing nothing at all but your wand, but here, Remus, you need to pay a bit more attention to the way you look.  And I must say those robes of yours are a disgrace!"

Remus smiled slightly, quirking his eyebrows.  "Really, Poppy?" he said, stifling a laugh.  "And here I am thinking that they sent me these clothes because they knew I would look twice as handsome in them."

Poppy could not resist the charm of that easy laugh even if she had wanted to.  As she watched Remus unwrap another package, she remembered another Christmas morning years ago.  

_There was snow too then, and the earth was frozen so hard that the grave digger had to perform a basic thawing charm before they could start working.  Remus was there, pale and exhausted from a full moon night, supported by James on his right and Sirius on his left, with Peter holding a huge umbrella over them and James's young wife Lily scattering flowers on top of the two cheap coffins laid side-by-side in the grave.  Despite the heartbreakingly frugal and crowdless funeral, there was something uplifting in the fierce way that Remus's friends had rallied to their comrade's aid. _

_It was a pitiful contrast, Remus's slight, shaking figure, clad in an old coat two sizes too big for him, sagging wearily against Sirius's well-built, fashionably-dressed frame.  James, his hand around Lily's waist, was trying his best to persuade Remus to stay at his place in Godric Hollow.  But Remus was adamant._

_"The moon will only start waning tomorrow, James."  His voice was barely more than a whisper but there was no mistaking the stubborn note in it.  "Think of Harry, and Lily.  I might put them in danger."_

_"Think of yourself," argued James gently.  "We can't let you go back alone to your house tonight.  Besides Lily will be only too happy to have you with us.  She always welcomes anyone who might be enlisted in the nappy-changing squad."_

_Lily smiled.  "Don't go looking around for a substitute, James," she chided before, turning to Remus, saying, "Remus, I am more worried about you transforming alone than you changing in our place, especially in your present condition.  At least James will be there if things get out of hand."_

_"Besides," added Sirius,  "the Ministry people will certainly still be there doing their stupid, useless bit of investigation.  Better to have Christmas dinner with friends than with a bunch of morons, Remus.  I'd love to have you over to my place, but you know how it is there.  And I'd vote for Lily's roast turkey any day, if she and James'll have me at their table.  James gets quite proprietary over Lily's cooking, you know."_

_Peter chuckled, but was quickly hushed by James, who had his eyes anxiously fixed on Remus.  It did not seem possible, but Remus's face had turned a shade paler and for a while he looked as if he was about to faint.  But he blinked and forced a wan smile to curve his lips._

_"You're right.  I can't … I can't go back there," he croaked.  They all knew why. There was still that writing over the Lupins' fireplace; letters of blood on dark stone wall: _"Purge the world of muggles and freaks."__

_"If you'll have a beggar at your table, Lily," Remus smiled at James's wife, "I'll be very grateful."_

_Lily snorted.  "You're never a beggar, Remus.  Sirius is."_

_There was a ghost of a smile in Remus's eyes and it was such a shame to break the cozy camaraderie that warmly cocooned Remus Lupin in his darkest hours.  But Albus Dumbledore and Poppy Pomfrey were expected to be present in the Christmas banquet at Hogwarts and they had to take their leave._

_"Headmaster," said Remus, extending his hand, as Dumbledore approached him.  "Thank you very much for coming today.  It means a lot to me."_

_"Your parents are admirable people, Remus," said Dumbledore solemnly, touching Remus on the shoulder. "And not the least because they have such a brave, gifted wizard for a son."  _

_Remus was struggling against tears when Dumbledore stepped back.  Poppy gave him a crushing hug, too overwhelmed to say anything for a long while and simply offered her sympathy in the only way she knew, comfort.  She rubbed him gently on the back—she could count each vertebrae, she noted with a shiver—and felt Remus sob quietly against her shoulder._

_"If there is anything you need, my boy," she said, fighting back a sob of her own. "Just tell me.  Tell us.  Albus and I will do anything to help you."_

_"Thank you, Poppy," he whispered.  "My friends will look after me, but it's nice to know I can go to you for help."_

And who had been looking after you, boy, after they all disappeared—James, Lily and Peter perished; Sirius imprisoned and now on the run—Poppy thought as she gazed at Remus's laughing face.  He had just opened Hagrid's present and found a pair of lemon yellow socks big enough to be used as pillowcases.  

How many Christmas did you spend worrying whether you could afford the next hot meal or put a wall between you and the bitter winter?

"Wow!  Thank you, Poppy!"  

Her thought was brought to an abrupt halt by Remus's exclamation.  He was holding a maroon-colored mug with a handle shaped like a dragon.  

"It will keep anything warm for two or three days," explained Poppy.  "As long as you keep the dragon well-polished, the spell will hold."

Remus smiled and leaned forward to give Poppy a kiss on the cheek.  "Thanks, Poppy.  This will come very handy."

He sighed, put the mug beside his neat pile of shirts and sweaters, socks and woollen scarves, books and candy boxes, and he smiled.  "This Christmas is the best one I had in years," he murmured with a smile.  

"Too bad you didn't open my present earlier," grumbled Poppy good-naturedly, "or we could have put that tea of yours in it.  You've missed Christmas dinner and tea, and why you think it's enough to eat a few sorry sticks of potato chips and a bit of unsweetened tea to make up for it all I will never understand.  But at least eat them while they were still hot.  Look at those potatoes now."

Remus took the small plate of cold potato chips from the table and gazed down at it, his eyes shuttered from Poppy's sight by a neat row of thick, brown lashes.  

"Oh, don't fret, Poppy," he said, looking up at Poppy with a tremulous smile.  "I like it this way.  This is my favorite Christmas food, do you know that?"

His eyes were overbright and when he brought a piece of chip to his mouth, he looked away so Poppy would not see his tears.  

~fin~


End file.
